I was a Catholic kid in the public school system in the mid 1960s. This meant, of course, that I was destined for Sunday school. My parents remained true to the promise they made to God on the day they were married to bring their children up in the faith. So, off I went. I have no recollection of how I found my way to the classroom (I was only six or seven), but what I do remember, what I will never forget, is the feeling I got when I walked in.

Hanging on the wall was a rather large crucifix, and tucked into a niche high up on the wall was a statue of Mary. I imagined both images looking down at me. Both were definitely mysterious to me—the public school classrooms did not have this, and neither did my family home. Imagine my bewilderment. I did trust my parents, so I accepted that I was supposed to be there. I was just not exactly sure why.

I was intrigued by and drawn to the statues, and I looked forward to returning to the classroom the following weeks. They caused a kind of spiritual longing in me that is hard to put into words. A seed had been planted by God and nourished by the Holy Spirit through these unexpected wood and plaster depictions of the most important characters in the story of salvation history.